Frivolity
by Tor Raptor
Summary: A Fragile Ficlet: Yes, Sherlock, we're celebrating your birthday. Whether you like it or not.


**Note: This is definitely one of the fluffier ficlets. The next two I have lined up are much more angsty, so enjoy this lightheartedness while it lasts!**

John always began thinking about Sherlock's birthday the week after Christmas—once he actually learned when it was. Sherlock always began thinking about his birthday when John reminded him of it, and then immediately forgot again. Things like that just didn't register in that brilliant mind of his.

"John, it's just another day out of three hundred sixty five. What makes it so important?" he'd once said in the first years of their friendship.

"It's the anniversary of the day you entered this world. Doesn't that seem just a little bit important?" John had countered. Sherlock had just rolled his eyes at this, and John let it go. He couldn't resist wishing him a happy birthday on the day of, but had respected his wishes otherwise. January 6th usually passed like any other day at Baker Street.

But John was not going to let this year's special day go uncelebrated. Sherlock's last birthday had been spent in hospital, and was completely overlooked by everyone, including John. He was going to make up for that this year, whether Sherlock granted him permission or not. He was especially excited for the gift he'd made. Sherlock was inseparable from Lestrade's butchery blanket, and John had decided to utilize that idea of personalized gruesomeness.

He planned everything without any input from Sherlock himself. Not that it was a surprise party or anything, the detective just couldn't be bothered to offer any suggestions beyond, "Don't make a fuss." John didn't consider inviting their friends for a small get-together to be 'making a fuss,' but when he said that, Sherlock had probably meant don't do anything at all.

It was only going to be five of them: John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. John didn't invite Mycroft. Sherlock would hate him forever if he voluntarily granted that man passage into their flat. Sherlock's brother probably knew the time and would show up anyway, but at least John could be honest when he insisted that he hadn't invited him. Besides, Mycroft had become a lot more bearable since the leukaemia debacle. It was as if his brain had scooted over to leave a little more room for his heart.

The morning of Sherlock's birthday, John awoke excited for the day ahead. Of course, the birthday boy himself would try to dampen his enthusiasm all morning, but John vowed not to allow Sherlock to get to him.

"John, is it too late to cancel whatever histrionics you've planned for today?" was the first comment out of Sherlock's mouth once he awoke and wandered into the living room.

"Yes, it's too late. Even if it wasn't, nothing you can say would make me cancel it. And I don't want to hear you complain all day. It's your birthday for God's sake."

"Then shouldn't I be entitled to do whatever _I_ want?" he melodramatically flopped over on his chair with a sigh.

"I'm not letting another birthday pass completely unacknowledged," John insisted. "Not after last year."

"Last year's birthday was nice," Sherlock remarked.

"Sherlock, this time last year, you were in hospital. Nothing I force you to do can possibly be worse."

"Debatable."

"This is supposed to be fun," John said. "Why do you insist on making yourself and everyone around you miserable?"

"I don't do that," Sherlock huffed. He rolled over and looked at John pleadingly. "I'm just not up for company today, I don't feel so great."

John had developed an almost Pavlovian response to this phrase due to the frequency at which Sherlock became truly sick these days. The continued maintenance chemo kept his immune system dangerously suppressed, and even a little cold needed to be treated with the utmost caution. But John also knew Sherlock well enough to know the difference between him faking it and a real crisis.

"Sherlock, we've been over this," John sighed. "You know I don't like that excuse. Please remind me what happens when you pretend to be sick to get out of doing something you don't want to do."

"Sorry," Sherlock grumbled.

"No, I want to hear you say it so I know you haven't forgotten."

"Don't falsely claim to be sick because it makes John worry," he parroted.

"And…?"

"And it earns me nothing more than another trip to hospital."

"Right. If you say you're sick, I will not hesitate to take you to get you checked over. I think you'd much rather face a birthday party in your own flat than a doctor's visit, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied begrudgingly.

"Good. Now cheer up and stop bemoaning your very existence. Molly and Lestrade should be here around one, and I expect you to be presentable by then." Sherlock was notorious for staying in his pyjamas—sometimes even less than that—all day if he didn't plan to leave the flat. John was a bit more lenient with this now than he had been before, but he had to draw the line somewhere.

John shook his head and finally let Sherlock be. The detective could be so childish and petulant sometimes, John just needed a break. He honestly felt like a part-time nanny to the world's oldest child. He just hoped that Sherlock would just get over whatever-it-was and allow himself to have a little fun at his own celebration.

John spent the rest of the morning tidying up the flat, much to Sherlock's consternation. Apparently the detective found his microscope a more integral part of the kitchen than essential things, like space for food. Almost everything John attempted to move sparked a squabble, until he finally gave up. It would be less effort to explain away the mess than to clean it up. Besides, all of their guests had seen the flat before. The clutter would come as no surprise.

As the clock neared one in the afternoon, John was surprised to find Sherlock had actually heeded his command and changed out of his pyjamas. He used to wear his dress shirts much more frequently before he got sick, and unfortunately John had a sneaking suspicion as to why they'd fallen out of favor. Not that he'd ever admit it, Sherlock still struggled with fine motor tasks like buttoning up a shirt. John only knew this because he'd kind of spied on him one time—with good reason. He'd heard muttered curses from Sherlock's room one morning, and just wanted to make sure nothing was amiss. Sherlock was so focused on getting his mangled right hand to cooperate with his left that he failed to notice John peeking in from the doorway. John wished he'd come to terms with this minor disability and just ask for help; it would save him a lot of time and anguish. But Sherlock's stubbornness and pride would never permit such an action.

Which is why John debated whether or not to tell him that his buttons were crooked. The old Sherlock would have noticed it himself and fixed it immediately—not that he would have done them up incorrectly in the first place. But John suspected Sherlock had put forth a lot of time and effort doing them the first time and didn't want to endure the hassle yet again. There was no doubt he noticed the flaw, since Sherlock noticed everything, so he must've been incredibly frustrated that he didn't have the strength to redo them. John tried to quash the pity that rose in the back of his mind, but he couldn't help himself. Without a word, John strode up to Sherlock and redid them himself.

Sherlock flinched when John initially grabbed him by the shirtfront and tried to pull away until he realized what John was doing. Immediately, his cheeks flushed deep crimson with humiliation, but he stood still and allowed the doctor to finish his task. Fortunately, John made quick work of it and then asked, "Now wasn't that easier?"

"Maybe," Sherlock begrudgingly admitted.

"If you can make me go out to get milk all the time because it 'inconveniences you,' then you can make me button your shirt, tie your shoes, or open a jar, yeah?" John added, listing several tasks he'd observed Sherlock struggle silently with. He may not have Sherlock's powers of observation and deduction, but his eye had always been attuned to suffering. "If it's any consolation, your handwriting's _always_ been rubbish."

"I resent that accusation, _Dr._ Watson. At least I'm not part of a profession notorious for horrid penmanship," Sherlock countered, adjusting his collar now that his shirt was properly buttoned.

"A thank you would suffice."

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered. Then he stalked off and returned to whatever he'd been doing all morning at the kitchen table. John was surprised he'd actually gotten him to say it, since Sherlock often ignored his requests for gratitude. He sighed and plopped down in his chair, awaiting the arrival of their guests. He'd texted this morning and ensured everyone was healthy. Of course their friends knew to avoid contact with Sherlock if they were sick—John had reiterated this countless times when Sherlock wasn't around to complain about his 'mother hen complex'—but John always erred on the side of caution.

At exactly one o'clock, the doorbell rang and Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with both Molly and Lestrade in tow. John had to admit their punctuality impressed him. Sherlock, too, had apparently expected them to be late, since he was still absorbed in his experiment. John excused himself after exchanging pleasantries and strode into the kitchen to alert Sherlock to the arrival of their guests.

"You're not going to make me wear a party hat, are you?" Sherlock inquired. John couldn't tell if he was kidding or not, and that concerned him.

"'Course not. That would be fighting a losing battle." Accepting this answer, Sherlock stood and followed John back into the living room. He'd barely stepped over the threshold before Molly had her arms around him in a ferocious bear hug. John almost laughed at the initial confusion evident on Sherlock's face, and the ensuing awkwardness. Undoubtedly, he abhorred the close physical contact, but he wouldn't dare try to wriggle out from Molly Hooper's grasp. John and Lestrade exchanged a knowing glance as Sherlock silently pleaded with them using only his eyes.

"Nice to see you too, Molly," he muttered, half-heartedly returning her embrace in the hopes she'd finally release him.

"Happy birthday," Molly stated before finally stepping back from a flustered Sherlock.

"I might be sore tomorrow after that," he said, massaging his abused ribcage. John could detect the jest in his tone, but Molly obviously missed it.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I hurt you, didn't I? I'm such an idiot sometimes," Molly chastised, her gaze immediately shifting to the floor.

"No, no, Molly. I assure you, I'm not that fragile. Thank you for coming." John heard earnest gratitude in Sherlock's voice and silently thanked him for remembering his manners. Lestrade wished him a happy birthday as well, and Sherlock launched into a description of all the reasons birthdays weren't worth celebrating. John shook his head and resigned himself to listen. It was Sherlock's special day after all, he should be allowed to do as he pleases.

Eventually, Molly and Sherlock shifted into a discussion of methods of identifying poisons post-mortem that neither John nor Lestrade wished to participate in. Unlike Sherlock, they liked to leave work and work and enjoy home when they were home. John offered Lestrade a drink, which he gladly accepted. They stood near the kitchen and watched as Sherlock gesticulated to demonstrate whatever concept he was explaining to Molly. John didn't think they'd end this conversation for at least another half an hour, so he took the time to converse with the DI.

"How'd you get him to agree to this?" Lestrade asked. "He practically just wrote a book on why we shouldn't celebrate birthdays."

"He didn't agree to it, per se, rather I just told him it was happening and he didn't protest vehemently enough."

"He tried to talk you out of it?"

"Only every day since Christmas. You would've thought I was planning to force him to go furniture shopping or something. He even faked sick this morning, though I suspect his heart wasn't in it. He didn't have me fooled for a second. Sometimes, I actually have to break out the thermometer to check if he's lying to me or not," John explained.

"How often has he done that? I can't imagine you drag him to that many places he'd rather not go."

"Oh, five or six times. But usually I can corner him by threatening to take him to hospital. That always forces the truth right out of him. Actually, sometimes he's faked healthy when he's actually been sick because I warned him he might have to go. You remember that first bout of pneumonia he caught right out of hospital? He hid away in his bedroom and let himself nearly suffocate rather than tell me something was wrong."

"Can you blame him? Nobody likes hospitals, and he's got reason to hate them even more than most."

"No, of course not. I hate going almost as much as he does, but dying is certainly an awful lot worse. I just wish he'd be honest with me about this sort of thing."

"Have you told him that?" Lestrade questioned.

"In a way. He also tries to hide other things. I don't think he realizes exactly how much observational skill I've picked up from him; I notice a lot more than he accounts for. He won't even admit to me that he can't easily button up a shirt. This morning, he did them up crooked and didn't have the dexterity or stamina to fix it. I had to force my assistance upon him."

"John, he's a prideful man. I wouldn't want to have to ask my friend to dress me or tie my shoes, and I'm sure you wouldn't either."

"You're right, but I guess I just hoped he'd trust me a little more. He knows I would never judge him for needing help with something like that. At least, I hope he knows that."

"I'm sure he does. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes, he knows everything."

"Except his own birth date," John chuckled. "If I didn't remind him every year, he'd reach a hundred thinking he was still twenty five." At this comment, both men burst out laughing. Sherlock, still in the middle of a lengthy explanation, glared at them to shut up, to no avail. They were just buzzed enough that they found the poor joke immeasurably hilarious. The detective rolled his eyes and returned to his conversation with Molly. However, he was again interrupted when John insisted they move on to gifts.

Sherlock appeared puzzled. John wondered how many birthday gifts he'd actually gotten since childhood. It couldn't be many; he'd refused to even tell John when his birthday was, so it must be a well-kept secret. Maybe Mycroft sent him some sort of gag gift every year. John could barely contain his excitement as he ran up to his bedroom to fetch his gift. Technically, it had been Sherlock's idea initially, but John had since put a lot of thought and effort into making it a reality.

Sherlock sat down in his chair and the rest of them fanned out around him like children waiting to hear a story. Mrs. Hudson shouted from the kitchen that her input in planning the party should be present enough, and reminded him that she's 'not your housekeeper.' Next, Molly presented him with a meticulously wrapped package.

"Don't try to deduce what's inside, just open it like a normal person," John instructed. Sherlock almost always ruined surprises for himself. But today, he actually listened and gently tore at the paper. Inside was a plain white box, which he opened slowly. He then pulled out a beautifully knit winter hat the exact same shade of navy as his favorite scarf. John was impressed with Molly's sensibility. There was nothing Sherlock needed more in the heart of a particularly frigid winter. He could've given Molly a hug himself, but figured that was more than a little unwarranted.

"It's… perfect," Sherlock stammered, gently running his fingers across the fabric. John silently willed him to try it on—that was customary when presented with clothing as a gift. Sherlock complied, and John immediately congratulated Molly on her good taste. Now he understood why Sherlock loved the navy scarf so much. It contrasted with the light blue-green of his eyes and gave him a somewhat brooding appearance. Not that it mattered to John, but with a hat on, all that remained visible of his scar was a small triangle above his right eyebrow (the bottom point of the heart). There would always be situations where looking inconspicuous would be advantageous.

John deferred to Lestrade, but the DI insisted his had to be last. Grinning obnoxiously, John handed Sherlock his package. Fortunately, it had arrived in time for John to wrap it. Sherlock looked at John quizzically, wondering what could possibly make the doctor so giddy. John could barely contain himself as he watched Sherlock rip into the wrapping. John focused on Sherlock's expression, and he would forever savor the moment the detective realized what John's gift was. His mouth twisted into an amused grin and his eyes lit up with delight.

"John, what did you do?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing worse than what you did with that blanket," John defended, still focused on Sherlock. The detective turned it around after a good, long look to show Lestrade and Molly. At first, they didn't realize what it was. When they finally recognized the subject, they were somewhat appalled. Then they took in Sherlock's mirthful smile and allowed themselves to laugh.

"John, somehow I managed to forget I ever asked for this," Sherlock admitted. "How'd you get all the photos if I forgot to remind you?"

"You slept an awful lot, so it was pretty easy to snap them without you noticing," John answered. "I'm glad you forgot, since that makes it a surprise gift. Do you like it?"

"Yes, of course I like it! We should hang this up."

"And frighten all out future clients to death? They're usually startled enough seeing you for the first time."

"Nonsense. They won't even recognize it for what it is."

What it was: a series of photographs depicting the healing process of the skin graft site. Long ago, before Sherlock even knew what he looked like, he'd requested John do this, but had evidently forgotten about the continued project. John, however, hadn't forgotten and had taken every opportunity to take a photo as the new skin took. The final product was both macabre and magnificent all at once.

Lestrade commended John on a job well done: "You took a page right out of my book. Fortunately for you, you didn't have to go through Anderson to get your photos."

"Is that really where they came from?" Sherlock interjected. "I'll have to burn that quilt after all."

"Sherlock, you wouldn't dare," John intoned.

"I'm kidding."

"Greg, you insisted on going last, I guess that makes it your turn," said John.

"Well, there's a part one and a part two. I can give you part one right now, part two will have to wait a while," he explained. He handed Sherlock a gift bag, which the detective eagerly tore into. He pulled out what appeared to be a plain black tee shirt from the back. But the baffled expression on his face revealed that there must be something written on the front. John glanced at Lestrade, who was smirking with barely-contained laughter. John was definitely curious at this point.

Sherlock flipped it around to show John, lips pursed in amusement. John glanced at it and couldn't help but chuckle. On the front was a neon green stick figure beneath the words, 'I survived radiation.' Maybe it was the drink they'd had earlier, or maybe the sheer ridiculousness of imagining Sherlock wearing such a thing, but neither John nor Lestrade could contain themselves. Both men burst out laughing while Sherlock watched them silently. He and Molly exchanged a glance that communicated, "Have our friends gone absolutely bonkers?" John felt tears well up in his eyes before he finally calmed himself down.

"I'm assuming this is what one would call a 'gag gift,'" Sherlock remarked.

"Of course. I'm not expecting you to walk into work wearing it or anything like that. I saw it and just thought it was kinda cute," Lestrade explained.

"On very few occasions have I had to assess whether something is 'cute.'"

"Well, take my word for it, okay?"

"Okay. But I think the more memorable aspect of this present is the pleasure of seeing John laugh so hard he nearly wet himself," Sherlock joked. "It can't possibly be _that_ funny, can it?"

"I don't know," John admitted. "But I would honestly pay good money for you to wear it to Scotland Yard at least once. I just want to see the look on Anderson's face." Sherlock's eyes lit up at the prospect of throwing Anderson for a loop, and he refolded the shirt, neatly laying it on the table beside him.

"I'll think about it," he said. "And thank you. I must admit you've piqued my curiosity regarding part two."

Before Lestrade could reply, Mrs. Hudson called them into the kitchen. There were very few things John knew Sherlock ate for pleasure. He viewed dining as a chore that just so happened to be crucial to life. But Mrs. Hudson had known him even longer; apparently she'd kept a mental list of everything he'd ever voluntarily eaten and procured it for today. John was reminded yet again how in awe he was of this woman.

They spent the next hour snacking and chatting like any group of friends would. Part of John expected Big Brother Mycroft to pop in, but he never appeared. He was probably too busy preventing World War III. John only hoped Sherlock was as content as he was, enjoying the company of those closest to them without a care in the world. John was reminded of that one night in the hospital they'd spent playing Cluedo, one of the few occasions he'd seen Sherlock genuinely smile during that awful time. Of course, he'd argued with every single rumor and rule, but John knew he'd enjoyed himself.

"Okay, I think it's finally time to announce part two," Lestrade informed them.

"You're being awfully cryptic about this mystery gift," Sherlock observed.

"It's not that big a deal. I just couldn't tell you earlier because John would have my head." Now John was puzzled; what on Earth was the DI talking about? Why would he be angry with him for whatever this present was? "Double homicide in a locked room with a message on the wall written entirely in thumb tacks. Happy birthday."

"You've been sitting on that the entire time you've been here?" Sherlock questioned. "Why didn't you tell me earlier you had a case? Especially if it's at least an eight?"

"Because you would've wanted to leave immediately."

"And?"

"It would've cut your party short. John wouldn't have appreciated that," Lestrade explained.

"He's right, I wouldn't. But now what are you waiting for?" John asked. Sherlock's eyes lit up, and he snatched his coat and scarf. John barely managed to keep up with him.

"An eight, John! It really is my birthday!"

~0~

They spent two hours at the scene, but that wasn't enough to solve everything. This was definitely going to be one of those that Sherlock thought about for days. When they returned home, John left him to go through all the evidence again and work his magic. In the meantime, he embraced his inner handyman and managed to hang his gift to Sherlock on the wall. It wasn't crooked, and it held steady when he let go, so he was satisfied.

Eventually, the time neared midnight and John interrupted Sherlock's thinking. "Time for bed," he said. Sherlock pouted at him like a child, but marched off to his room. John went upstairs to his own room and prepared to settle down for the night. Just as he was crawling into bed, Sherlock shouted his name. John instantly switched into combat mode, charging downstairs with his heart pounding in his chest.

"What's wrong?" he panted when he reached Sherlock's bedroom.

"Turn out the lights," the detective instructed. John was puzzled, but he obeyed. He flipped the light switch and expected to be plunged into complete darkness. Instead, a green light seemed to emanate from Sherlock himself. "John, it glows in the dark!"

John took a closer look at Sherlock and, sure enough, the little stick figure on his new shirt blazed a bright green. John hadn't thought Sherlock would ever wear the shirt, and he found it somewhat adorable that he did. His excitement over the glow-in-the-dark feature was also endearing, something John would have to tell Greg about tomorrow. In the innocence of the moment, John forgot about any anger towards Sherlock for startling him.

"That's neat," John yawned. "But I'm going back to bed."

"John, wait," Sherlock said. "I just wanted to thank you. I did have fun today."

"Yeah, that was a pretty great case."

"Not just the case. The rest of it, too. Thanks for forcing me into it." It took a moment for John's exhausted brain to wrap itself around what Sherlock was trying to say. He was admitting he'd actually enjoyed the party, and this statement melted John's heart. With another massive yawn, he replied:

"Any time, mate. Happy birthday."


End file.
